Sirenita Lake

Sirenita Lake
Location
San Francisco, California,
Birthday
November 04
Bio
I am married in a committed, open relationship that is the anchor of my life. I'm a former high school English teacher, former software technical writer, and graduate of the late, great public interest law school, New College of California School of Law. I'm now on permanent disability from conditions that have finally eased up enough for me to begin exploring the world, at least that part which I can access emotionally, with the recklessness of a teenager. An important part of my life remains my work as a counselor for tenants with legal problems. The rest of the time, I indulge in outrageous adventures in sex and love, which I occasionally write about.

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NOVEMBER 9, 2009 1:50PM

Buying a Condom, Old School

Rate: 63 Flag

How I came to be buying a condom in a Hilton hotel across the street from LAX is a meandering tale of impulsive decisions and their consequences, tragic or comic. In the late 70s, I graduated from college with a degree in linguistics. I had no particular plans for being any kind of linguist, but chose linguistics instead of English on the vague assumption that somehow there were more jobs available to someone with a linguistics degree. Not knowing a thing about the discipline other than the name, I was completely surprised by the course content, which was much more technical and scientific than anything I associated with the study of language. But then, that was probably more practical, wasn’t it? So I decided, all right then, I’ll learn to slice and dice language 18 different ways.

I studied phonetics, morphology, theories of grammar and deep structure, and historical and social linguistics. We studied language acquisition using examples of feral and abused children. We learned to reconstruct dead languages and rescue dying languages from oblivion. We studied the use of metaphor and ellipsis and how that revealed power relationships, and the text we used was the Watergate tapes. I learned to program the department computer, a dinosaur about the size of a small refrigerator with a row of switches you could flip to ones and zeros, in case you didn’t feel like using the teletype. A graduate student and I wrote a program to sample and add together sound waves. I mapped verb forms of a dying Northwest Indian language based on a dictionary compiled in the 19th century by a missionary. I was a pretty smart undergraduate.

I finished college and moved out of my Berkeley apartment and back to my mom’s house in San Francisco. I was done with Berkeley. It’s a great place, but there is something in me that needs the urban diversity of San Francisco more than the youthful energy of Berkeley. I was tired of the young and brilliant.

Mom’s tended to be an easygoing household. My friends and I would sit around with my mom and sip wine on the weekends. I didn’t mind going home for a while. I needed to take stock. I had no idea what you did after graduating from college. I knew by then that I didn’t want to be in linguistics. I was meant to go to graduate school, but in what? I figured I would take 6 months or a year to think about it. When it came to my future, I foundered, not because I had no talents or interests—I had enough of those to confuse the hell out of me—but because I still had no idea how life was done.

One evening four days after my last final, after everyone had gone to bed, I walked to a local bar for cigarettes. Once there, I decided to have a beer. The bar being refreshingly not a Berkeley student bar. I got to talking with a boy around my age, drinking slow. The bar did not stay open late on weeknights, so we grabbed a few beers and went and drank them at the beach, sitting on some rocks on the spit of land that makes up one side of the Golden Gate, around the corner from the bridge.

I’ve wondered many time since then how defective my judgment was that night. I tend to trust people and I was feeling pretty confident that night. The guy was a perfect gentleman and not an academic, activist, poet or any of the intellectual cream I was used to associating with. Still drinking slowly, we watched the waves for an hour. Then, around two in the morning, I said I had to go home. He graciously helped me down the rocks and we walked to the car.

We now know from studies that you can be impaired without appearing drunk. In those days and in the context of college drinking, we were not drunk. We could walk straight, see, speak without slurring and in general, maintain. I had no hesitation about getting in a car with that boy because he was not, as we judged it then, drunk. If that wasn’t risky enough, we never wore seat belts. Back in those days, most cars didn’t have shoulder belts. You had a choice. Wear your lap belt and hit the dash in an accident, or don’t wear it and hit the windshield. Mostly, we didn’t bother.

We drove through the Presidio, the stunningly scenic military base in San Francisco, toward my house. We went the wrong way, probably due to my directions. Was he looking for a street sign? For whatever reason, he drove through a stop sign. A cop saw him and turned on his light. This guy, the perfect gentleman who had not even made a pass at me though we sat alone on the beach drinking for an hour, decided to run from the cop. I have an elusive memory of great fear. I love speed, but not through the unpredictable streets of San Francisco. I did not want to scream or argue, because I was afraid that would cause us to crash. I remember saying hopefully, “I think you lost him,” and the guy answering, “No, there he is.” That’s the last thing I remember.

I came to in a hospital bed. I was aware of intense, existence-defining pain before I was fully awake. The pain was the reality around which everything else—the bed, the room, the nurses—was organized. My brain was not working right. I don’t remember at what point I knew I had been in an accident, of my skull fractures, the black eye, but I do remember being asked my name and who the president was. I was annoyed to have to keep repeating this information. I also remember being told that I could not have any pain pills, because the doctor wouldn’t know if I was groggy from medication or brain damage. I could not eat because it hurt to chew.

After three days, I was sent home. Whatever could have happened to my brain didn’t happen and there was nothing more the doctors could do. My right eye was black halfway down my cheek. My hair was shaved back into a peninsula on the right, a receding hairline framing the stitches that ran from my eyebrow to my scalp. I looked like the bride of Frankenstein.

A week or so after I got home, I remembered with something like wonder that I had finished college. I remembered that I had a degree in linguistics. But I was back to square one—I didn’t know what linguistics was. It was erased. That depressed me. I could not read, because I could not remember the beginning of a sentence by the time I reached the end. It would be several months before I remembered what I had been doing before I got hurt. Folks at my volunteer job wondered where I had gone, I had vanished so completely from the Berkeley scene. It took a year for the headaches to stop completely, and I was prone to fatigue. Graduate school, even as a concept, was off the table.

I needed to do something with myself, but I had no clue what. Six months or so after the accident, my mom needed a set of tires. I went with her to the nearest tire store, a Firestone. We bought her tires. I was still in that passive, post-trauma state where I let people make decisions for me. The Firestone store had a sign in the window: they were looking for a part-time clerk. As she paid for the tires, my mother suggested me. The manager was agreeable. I went to work for Firestone.

At first, I did paperwork for a few hours a week. I got along well with the manager and the mechanics. I was smart. The manager, Bill, asked me if I wanted to sell tires. I said, sure. He was an extravert and a natural mentor, and seemed immune to the sexism that you would expect in the all-male automotive business back then. After a while, I became a full-time sales person. I was pretty good, and selling tires is not rocket science. In time, I became a passable service writer as well. There was something very grown up about having a working class job selling tires and tune-ups. Instead of writing papers, working on the Chicano literary newsletter and protesting in Sproul Hall, I measured tire tread, drove around town in a 3/4 ton pickup with a broken air compressor in the back, and gave orders to mechanics.

My old college radical friends, when I ran into them, were not impressed with my job. The working class was all well and good, but you didn’t want to be one. Still, I liked it.

Bill then suggested taking the next step, becoming the store assistant manager. The store opened at 7:00 a.m. and closed at 6:00 p.m. and he’d been running it by himself for a while. I was reliable; I needed to start sharing the opening and closing responsibilities. If I became the assistant manager, Bill could take Saturday off, which would please his stunning wife, Linda, a former model. I asked Bill more than once how a grease-monkey like him managed to land a wife like Linda. Linda wanted him home more, and I was to pick up the slack.

And that is how I ended up in City of Commerce, California, for a week-long Firestone assistant manager training course for sales employees in the western states. Staying in a hotel alone for the first time in my life, on the first business trip of my life, was pretty exciting, but I was surprised to find myself a curiosity to the other assistant-manager trainees. I was no Linda, but I was the cutest—and only—girl in the training course. I found myself in conversation with the guys in the class, one after another. I would make friends with a guy only to find that he didn’t want to hang out the next day. Someone else did, though. Apparently, they had organized themselves to take turns, having a gentle competition to see which of them I would select.

I gravitated toward Tim, an older and socially smooth man from Arizona. I remember an afternoon by the hotel pool, flirting with all of them, and finding Tim’s body especially nice. Some time later, we kissed. By the end of the week, it was clearly me and Tim. Then the course was over and it was time to go home, me to San Francisco and Tim to Prescott. We talked about staying in touch. He asked me to spend a day or two with him in Commerce after the course, but I was reluctant. I barely knew the guy, and I have, until very recently, been skittish about committing to spend time with people.

We met the other guys for the ride to the airport and went for a drink together as planned. Tim looked good to me and I wondered if I had made a mistake not agreeing to stay. Not long after we sat down at the airport bar, the other guys vanished, one after the other, making quick excuses. I was astonished. This was my first exposure to the phenomenon of guys cooperating, rather than competing, to get one of them laid. When the last of the tire boys was gone, Tim said, “There’s a hotel across the street from the airport. We can walk there. I’ll ask you one more time—stay with me.”

Now I wanted to. But I said, “We can’t. We’ve checked our luggage. We don’t have anything.”

Tim, older and more experienced, said, “You can get whatever you need from the hotel. They a drugstore.”

I gave in. We told the airlines we would not be flying that day. Our luggage gone, we started walking to the hotel. On the way, we discussed what we needed. Just toothbrushes, some toothpaste and deodorant.

“And a condom,” I said. I felt very, very grown up. I had lived with a guy; I had finished college, where I had an affair with my professor; but I had never discussed condoms with a man before. Condoms were what you used in an emergency, when you didn’t have your diaphragm or weren’t on the Pill. Condoms were a worldly thing to do. I felt every bit of it.

We were able to get a room at the Hilton. After grabbing the key, we went directly to the drugstore off the lobby to get what we needed. I reminded Tim to ask the guy for a package of condoms. The man had to do that—ask for the condom—because in those days, they were kept behind the counter to prevent the underaged from buying them.

One of the features of travel back in those days, and until the early 90s, was the ubiquity of Japanese tour groups. A group of Japanese girls came into the drugstore as we shopped, wandering around singly and making selections. Tim and I took our toothbrushes up to the counter. The clerk was a woman. She began ringing our purchases up. Tim glanced nervously around. He was the only man in the store with a dozen women.

“Will that be all?” the clerk asked politely. I waited for Tim to speak. He froze. I stared at him. What was wrong with him? Could he really not ask a woman for a condom?

I mustered my most sophisticated, nonchalant look and said, “May we have some condoms, please?”

She raised an eyebrow. “Some what?”

“Condoms.”

“What’s that?”

Damn, this was going to be harder than I thought. Embarrassed, I said, “Um, prophylactics.”

She said, “Huh?”

Exasperated, I said, “You know, rubbers.”

“Oh, you want rubbers!” She smiled. “Which kind?”

“There are kinds?” I quickly ran out of sophistication.

“Oh, there are lots of kinds!” she said enthusiastically. She pulled up an 18 inch by 2 foot display board from behind the counter and propped it by the register. Stapled to the board were a dozen and a half packages of condoms. She pointed, “This is regular, this is large, this one is ribbed, this is lambskin, this is ultra thin, this has a receptacle tip, this is ultra-thin with a receptacle tip, these come in colors...”

Tim had backed away, as if to indicate that he was not involved in this transaction. But I had company. A half dozen Japanese girls had gathered around, as clearly there was a sex-ed lecture with visual aids going on. Some American thing. They didn’t want to miss it. There was pointing and nodding, and commentary in Japanese.

“Can I get lambskin with a receptacle tip?” I could play this.

“No, they don’t have that. They make them from...,” she frowned, thinking.

“Lambs?” I said.

Her face brightened, “They make them from lambs. This one here has the receptacle tip.”

I got my receptacle tip and paid. Outside the store, a red-faced Tim sighed comically and whispered, “My hero!” We had great sex. His shyness stopping at buying a condom from a friendly female store clerk.

 

 (thefuddler turned me on to this funny link. Guys, check out How To Make Condoms Suck Less. )

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Never did have much time for caution.
Oh, I laughed. I remember my first condom-buying experience, when I was 14. I was mostly curious and did it on a dare, but that's the sort of experience one doesn't forget.
oh, this is another fabulous piece from you! excellent. i'm not sure that i ever bought condoms. i must have because i had them on hand. but i do remember buying some sort of hygiene product and the clerk holding it up for everyone to see and asking what the price was. mortifying. love love love and gratitude
Buying condoms was never a problem, not needing condoms was more embarrassing.

Lamb skins, more expensive and don't prevent HIV. Do they even sell them anymore?
Okay, I confess: I went to Google to see if lambskin condoms really exist. They do. I am now more embarrassed than Tim -- and less satisfied. Fun post!
Great writing and Rated.
A cute story, except for the car crash.
I always wondered why (when I was younger) they didn't have a thing called condomints.......
Another engaging tale from your very interesting life. Thanks for sharing.
Hey, why aren't you all working? ;-) I'm running out the door for an hour. I'll be back and thank every one of you individually. Thanks for reading.
awkward is buying a condom in those days from the nice old woman at the drug store. then having the same woman answer the door when you pick up the girl for your first date.

it took a long time but i healed.

joke over now...laugh.
You were a very smart undergrad and I'm sure a great writer even then.
Ash, you were 14 and they sold it to you? You were brave.

Teddy, I had the same thing happen to me with tampons. [clerk waving the box] "Price check on Tampax!"

sg, back then we didn't have HIV. I'm talking Old School. I have no idea if they still have them. Must look next time I'm in Walgreens.

Walter, that "satisfied" thing can be taken care of.

Roger, thanks so much!

Lefty, thanks. I tried to mine the skull fractures for humor but there just wasn't any. Well, I really did look like the Bride of Frankenstein. Other than that, it was an all-around bad trip.

O'Really, I think you've hit on The Next Big Thing--edible condoms.

Julie, thanks! Interesting is better in retrospect sometimes.

wschanz, that was too funny. You just say, "Those balloons were a hit at my nephew's birthday party!"

Hi Caroline! Yes, I liked the stuff I wrote in college. Mostly papers on literature. The stuff you can be creative on, but it's not fiction. The essay has always been my form.
The last time I went to buy condoms , they weren't in the right aisle. Couldn't find the damn things. So I asked a clerk for help and she went to a microphone and yelled "Manager, customer needs to know which aisle the condoms are.in" I think I detected a few store-wide titters.
O'Really: They do have condomints. Realtors give them out to prospective condo buyers.
Funny piece! R
Busted! Yeah, supposed to be working while watching grand baby!
What a fun tale of life's little tricks and treats! Just ate some leftover Halloween candy, thus...
Hate condoms personally and haven't had the occasion to use them in decades!!! Only bought them once! The variety boggles my mind! Fun stuff!
That scene with the Japanese girls is classic, and it's wonderful how the whole piece builds to that moment of farce.

I well remember the first time, in late 1974 (age 18) when I had to screw up my courage to ask a pharmacist at the drugstore near the university campus for "prophylactics." I don't know what I would have done if he'd hauled out an enormous display board. We truly live in more enlightened times now, when a teenager can pluck them off the rack at the supermarket or 7-11, or get them on the internet.
Hey, for not having time for caution, you did pretty damn good!!!!
Wow - what a ride. It went from treacherous to hilarious. Love your writing.

Oh my, did this bring back memories. You were very brave - I was way, way, way too shy.
John, what is it about store clerks needing to shout out your secrets?

Cathy, I'm so glad you took time from work to read this! The variety is intimidating, very.

Mark, it's it cool that you don't have to ask for the damn things anymore? Thanks for the comment on the writing. I was hoping the earlier drama did not over-shadow the comical ending.

Owl, I guess you're right. I'll run off with a stranger, but I must have condoms.

Kate, I was always for throwing myself in at the deep end. Oddly, there are situations where I am very timid, like if I need to promote myself or just navigate a new social environment.
I just really like your stories, they are so straightforward. But damn girl that wreck changed your life and you write about it so matter of factly!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
" “They make them from lambs. This one here has the receptacle tip.”

Teeheehee!! They make them from lambs. Giggle!! And you put them on the penis!!! Heehee!! BLUSH!!

;)

Great story. Highly rated.
Great story! I hate condoms with a passion but they're better than doing without.
R~
incredible writing as per the usual. I think its hilarious that the guys had talked amongst themselves and were helping each other out to see who could spend more time with you. Was there an impromptu
emergency meeting?

The accident was a game changer for sure. What happened to the guy? (I am afraid to ask but asked anyway.)

I never ever saw a pegboard or whatever that was with condoms on them like some sort of scientific beetle study or something. That is a funny image as is most of this story.
I've never got acquainted with Mr. Condom. Had I known about lambskin .... ~R~
The first time I bought condoms was alone at a gas station. Fun times.

Excellent post, Sirenita.
Caution! Oh, yeah, I've heard of it but where's the fun in that?
My hero!
susan, a writer with certain tendencies...

Lisa, the wreck did change my life. I still have a permanently flattened eyebrow and a tendency for headaches.

Tink, I didn't mean to give you any more fantasies about lambs.

scanner, you said it. Check out the link I posted at the end of the story.

Ariana, I don't know what happened to the guy. He called me in the hospital to apologize. He was a gentleman to the end. He passed the drunk test--he was found to be legally sober.

Ah, Chuck, the lambskin....mmmmmm.....

Nat, see what you missed by buying your condom at the gas station?

Robin, that goes double!

Sharon, caution is great for throwing it to the wind.
What a jambalaya of experiences you've woven together. Great essay, you're such a good writer, Sirenita.
Ah, memories...I remember being so proud of buying condoms (when I needed them, of course)...and smiling back with a big grin when the salesclerk said "have a nice night"...of course I would!

Never used lambskin though...just seemed...too creepy, somehow.
I can't think about condoms until I get past the accident. As always, what a storyteller!
You wild thing, you. It's the only way to be, I think - rational but not too cautious. Great story. R
Fun,
and,
educational:`
Sirenita Lake.
I remember:`
Emko cream :`
I faked a Ya-know?
She was speaking:`
Nirvana! I a weevil!
I ask:`
No fatal freak! Please!
She was lovable! Bye?
I went to de`Nam, bye.
She went her own way.
I was drafted. GI- bye.
She sent me off to war,
and She became pregnant.
Twin girls. She and I were:`
a Wall twenty years latter:`

She lights cigarettes to say:`
She's miserable. She's sad:`
Tear streaked. Bewildered:`

I have three children. Ya 2:`
I feel like a weevil in corns:`
I smell of dung and lobster.

I no like the latex condoms.
Latex rubbers are reliable?
Trojan hold a sperm liter?

I assume rubbers get hole?
Use condom carefully too.
No condom need to fill up.
A condom fills 25- squirts?

I know not how to use`em.
VAMC gives Free condom.
A condom must not burst.

Rubbers? Use good folks.
I mean:`No tell porpoise.
No porpoise telling:`huh.

Condoms are holy:`hole.
Rubbers get a hole-holy.
Reliability is important.
Trojans? Emko? deuce.
Use scratchy condoms?

I say:`No tell porpoise.
Behave. Kiss all night.
Play. No stick penis.
Pray, day and night.
Kiss too all the day,
and play all nights!

What we talkin`bout?
A lawyer gives a dime?
Folks faith is restored?
`
VAMC rubbers are dry.
They break into pieces .
A condoms have a leak.

What's the porpoises?
gads.
conk.
snore.
sleep.
It's incredible that after that horrible brain injury and not remembering you now can write like this! Great story--I enjoyed every word!
This is a rollercoaster of a post. We get to go from learning linguistics at Berkeley, to a high speed car chase through San Francisco, to selling tires for Firestone, to laughing as Japanese girls get a free sex ed class, American style. Thanks for the ride, but I need to ask, did what you'd learned as a linguistics major come back eventually? That seems an awful lot of fascinating knowledge to be erased like that.
Well, shoot, is it terrible if I really really really loved this part?
"I studied phonetics, morphology, theories of grammar and deep structure, and historical and social linguistics. We studied language acquisition using examples of feral and abused children. We learned to reconstruct dead languages and rescue dying languages from oblivion. We studied the use of metaphor and ellipsis and how that revealed power relationships, and the text we used was the Watergate tapes." I LOVE linguistics, but only took a couple of classes in it - but the "Acquisition of Language" was the best class ever! Did you get it back , or is it all lingering and meandering around in your brain somewhere?

I also loved the Firestone part. I would so love to buy tires from you! (And I need some new ones for winter! Come and help me?)

Of course you asked for the condoms. And of course you were all about the receptacle tip. Of course you were.

Sending cake and birthday wishes, dearie.
I just googled receptacle tip condom and your post was number 6 for that search, :)
I love the way you get to the point the long way around. What a great story.
I don't make it by here a whole lot, I know. But I'm never disappointed when I do. A great tale, extremely well-told.
Sandra, it is a melange, isn't it. Everything seems to be connected to everything else. I think, how did I get there? and I want to tell the whole story.

darkside, loved "have a good night." Yes, kinda creepy. They make them from lambs, you know.

scupper, that accident took some getting over.

hippie chick, you said it!

Art, a lot happened back in the day. You were in 'Nam and there was a love affair/marriage? Wow. I remember when guys worried that their condom was too old, the one that had been in their billfold for a year.

Karin, I don't know what I would be like now if it hadn't happened. If I have any brain damage, it would be frontal lobe, the part with the impulse control. But I guess I never had much of that anyway.

nana, yes, it all came back. Not sure I can do the work now but it is fascinating. Everybody should study linguistics. We have so many assumptions about language, it's fun to find out which ones are true.

WUS, yes, it came back but it's been 30 years, so there's some attrition even without brain damage. I love that part of linguistics. I enjoyed the early childhood development stuff I studied at some point, too. I wish everyone could have some of these courses. Environment is so important. Yes, I'll absolutely go tire shopping with you. I love shopping, period.

Ariana, that's so funny. Only you would think to google receptacle tip. Now I gotta do it.

Ben, thanks! I keep telling them to pay me by the word.

Lonnie, thank you, and I don't post that often, which is probably why you don't get by that often. Stop by any time!
If I had had a kid, he'd be the kid at 1:25 in the vid.
He's hilarious.

BTW-As for your being a linguist. I have HAPPILY performed orally for women who speak other than only English.
I guess that makes me cunnilingual.

And, I didn't rubber the wrong way.
You know it's a wonder how we made it through our 'brilliance' isn' t it? Kudos on a well written and entertaining story..and, rated, of course.
Oh my first condom buy? I have yet to do that...my daughter's would buy mine for me:)
"I was tired of the young and brilliant. "

They can be truly annoying, can't they?
Sirenita, this is exactly the type of story I appreciate...the long lead-in of your accident with the great background, then the suspense of the occasion, the excellent humor of the purchase and the fine one-liner ending. Superior! And the condom memories are precious. Lamb skins! Takes me back. Rated
Lambskins were very cool, if memory serves. Interesting how decisions can be made so casually, linguistics? why not?, this guy seems all right, but you've never stuck me as the type to freeze in the headlights. Sorry about the accident but glad Tim turned out okay. Got an XL condom once. It slipped off and had to be fished out. Very romantic.
Ah, those uppity grad school types have no idea what they're missing out on by not working a counter. The most well-rounded folks can wear whichever color collar they choose to.

Your writing is wonderful, and the lead-in from tragic to hilarious was priceless. Rated.
My older brother was an on the road sales guy in the 60's. He came home to visit and I found his condoms on the dresser. They were mostly just to avoid pregnancy back then. I remember thinking "man, using these things must be a drag" - Then my little buddies and I stole a few and made water balloons out of them. Great BIG water balloons. RATED
You are...amazing, girl. brace and adventurous and full of stories for sure.

The first time I bought condoms, I was in Paris, where they are called "French envelopes" - or they were. Fortunately, I'd been prepped in advance.
Sirenita! How many stories can you tell in ONE story?! And you made me laugh out loud; what a fun post! Fantastic writing, as always, girl.
Kisses,
Marcela
Age sixteen. Decades ago. Clerk says "So what size do you need?" I start using my hands, gradually spreading them further apart like I'm telling a story about the fish that got away. She says " No. I meant a three pack or a dozen".
Any guy out there who says he didn't say "I'll need a large " when asked "What size?", is fibbing again.
XJS, you will be a popular guy in any language.

Patie, it's relief not to know everything anymore. I think you should go with your daughters to buy the condom. There might be a lecture going on.

digitalzen, I still find the young a brilliant annoying.

Ralph, good to see ya. Hard to believe it used to be such a procedure to buy a condom.
jimmymac, XL? Was that on purpose? Interestingly, when I was a technical writer, I met several others whose degree was in linguistics.

ephykk, thank you. The uppity grad school types were the same folks that spouted Marxism. A bit of cognitive dissonance there.

noah, they do make good water balloons, don't they?

Nikki, wow, you need to write the buying condoms in Paris story.

Marcela, thank you. You know how it is, one thing leads to another, it all seems part of the same story. It all is, in a way.
Wonderful writing!

I knew conclusively and for sure that my son and his girlfriend were having sex when I drove by the neighborhood drugstore and saw her hanging around, somewhat sheepishly, on the corner away from the door, and saw him inside making a purchase from the pharmacy counter.

Not too long after that, she and I had a conversation about where a sixteen-year-old girl could get the pill without her parents' permission. Thank God for the Free Clinics around.
Marilyn, isn't it great that they are mature enough to take precautions? You did a good job.
Great post Sirenita - and a belated Happy Birthday!

Now you all do know that "lambskins" are really made from don't you...?
Hey, blue, good to see you. They're not exactly fleece, are they? I think they're made from the guts.
Great Link. I wish I had known about this when I was 16!
R~
scanner, good to see you. It is a great link. Thank thefuddler, who seems to know a lot about this particular series of videos.
Sirenita, You are a talented writer whose clever grin peeks between the lines. Tim "got real lucky" that night, and I'm sure he remembers the occasion. When I was a kid, I thought my life was a boring series of inconsequential events, while everyone else seemed to grab excitement by its ass cheeks. Many years later, when I began thinking about writing stories, I recalled my own Sirenita Nights and smiled with full satisfaction as I glanced backward at all the so-called boredom. Staring through bicycle spokes as moonlight streamed through bay windows and I fumbled with lambskin. Loved your story enough to remember it when next I pass a tire store.
I'm late to the dance. Much apologies. Been on the sick end down here, but I loved your story. Funny how humble and shy people used to get over this sort of thing. I remember a few 'morning afters' when I would have to run up to the store for breakfast supplies. "You need anything while I'm out?'

'Nothing a man would get. Let me get dressed and I'll go with you.'

'What do you need?'

'Tampons. I started my period and I don't have any in my purse.'

'What brand. What size. Write it down. I'll get them.'

'Guys won't buy tampons!'

'Some of us do.'

Although it only happened a few times, it was always a shocker to them.
Anthony, thanks for reading. I will treasure "Sirenita nights."

Michael, sounds like we've had similar crossover experiences. Hope you're feeling better.
Loved the story. I was in a trance reading it. Sure brought back memories.
Fantastic story, Sirenita. I'm so concerned about the accident. Did all of your memory come back? That must have been frightening.

I love embarressing sex stories. They make me feel like I'm not alone.

Rated with love.
Chock full and brilliant memoir...I chose English over linguistics but I loved my linguistic courses...you are an amazing writer with stories to tell!
At CVS, condom are in locked cabinet. You need to call a sales person to have it. More embarrassing!!
Sounds like the old days...
I very much like way of telling stories. It's interesting, very juicy and has a natural flow.
In over forty years my experience with condoms has been mercifully limited to a very few occasions... R&R